


Model Family

by Grace_d



Series: Short Stories for Small Spiders [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Other: See Story Notes, Parent Tony Stark, everyone kind of needs a hug, kind of endgame compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_d/pseuds/Grace_d
Summary: Rhodey’s eyes flick to the half smile on Tony’s face, then back to Morgan, humming away, bathed in light in the sunny kitchen, hand wobbling as she scribbles on.Tony has one of her drawings clutched in his fist. Two figures of burnt orange, just boxes stacked on the other, and little stick legs.Morgan’s people have no faces.OR the one where the decimation happened, and everyone just does the best they can
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Morgan Stark, Happy Hogan & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Series: Short Stories for Small Spiders [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423630
Comments: 34
Kudos: 98





	Model Family

**Author's Note:**

> This work was based on a post going around Tumblr and Twitter. 
> 
> The twist in this might be triggering to some. If you'd like to know ahead of time please see end notes and check the original Tumblr link. (Link Here: https://stanallah.tumblr.com/post/189090355023/i-feel-like-im-losing-my-mind-this-is-legit-the )

Rhodey has to brace himself before he goes to the cabin, every time. He steps inside and it looks normal, just normal. Morning light streaming through the windows, clutter scattered all about. A pile of books in the corner, a couch that sags a little in the middle, reading glasses discarded on a benchtop. Little bits here and there, almost like a life. 

Rhodey wonders what this house looked like before the world ended. 

“Hi.” 

Rhodey flinches at the young voice. 

Morgan sits at the kitchen table, pushing hair back off her face with a flat hand. Her mouth twitches into a smile. 

“Morgan.” He can’t get used to it, even after all this time. “Where’s your-uh, you know?” 

The pencil briefly drops in her fingertips, like she’s forgotten it’s there. “Upstairs.” 

Morgan turns her face back to the paper. Rhodey watches the crayon as she carefully sets it back upright, grasped in her hand. A small crease appears in her forehead. He’s picking up these things, the longer he studies her, even though she changes what seems like constantly. Rhodey steps back, intending to call out for Tony. 

“I’m learning drawing.” Morgan says, her feet drumming against the chair legs. It’s in perfect time. Left, right, left, right. A grating percussion. She looks up at him. “Do you want to draw?” she asks. 

“I’m-” He wants to say ‘busy, can’t, got some other stuff to do’. He sighs instead. “What are you drawing?” 

She smiles, and with clumsy hands, pushes a paper towards him. He steps towards the table, only close enough to see the scribbles, boxes and circles stacked onto one another, little spindles protruding from the sides. They’re lined up in a row. 

“What is it?” Rhodey asks. 

“It’s people.” Morgan says. 

They’re interrupted by Tony, his soft slow footsteps on the stairs. There’s that moment, still, where Rhodey sees him and just breathes it in; Tony alive and not dead. Tony here and not gone. Rhodey pulls Tony into a hug, just for a second, then pulls back to study him. Grief has creased softly into the corners of Tony’s eyes and hangs there, like a permanent weight on his cheeks. 

Rhodey opens his mouth to ask how he is. 

“What are you working on, Morgs?” Tony steps away from Rhodey. 

She chirps back at him, and Rhodey looks away as Tony murmurs suggestions back, not wanting to see the proud hand he’ll rest on her shoulder, on her neck, on top of her head. 

“Check out the developing coordination, Rhodey.” Tony says and it’s too light, too pleased, too forced. 

“Tones, sorry, but we are a bit late.” Rhodey says. 

Tony tells Morgan to be good, then grabs his jacket. 

“Goodbye!” She calls after them. 

Rhodey’s eyes flick to the half smile on Tony’s face, then back to Morgan, humming away, bathed in light in the sunny kitchen, hand wobbling as she scribbles on. 

Tony has one of her drawings clutched in his fist. Two figures of burnt orange, just boxes stacked on the other, and little stick legs. 

Morgan’s people have no faces. 

* * *

“Happy.” 

A cold little hand pokes his face and he jolts, yanking himself out of his doze. The cold finger prods at him again. 

“Happy.” 

“Cut it out.” He snaps, swatting at the hand. He rubs his eyes, the greens and browns of the view from the porch blurring. He blinks it away, and in the hangover of his unplanned nap he expects to see the kid, ready to talk a million miles a minute and smile with shy sunlight. His breath stutters until his vision clears. 

Morgan folds her fingers together in front of her. 

“Hi, Happy!” She chirps. 

He frowns at her. She’s wearing clashing colours, like she dressed herself, blues and oranges and mary janes on her feet. 

“Don’t poke.” He says. 

“Oh.” She blinks rapidly. “Your sleep breathing is loud.” 

“Waking people is rude.” Happy says, and stretches his jaw, a dull ache starting to spread over his left shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.” She says automatically. “I got you a blanket.” 

Morgan continues to stare, analysing him, hands fidgeting with one another. He stands up, tossing the blanket off himself and steps down off the porch. Morgan follows, her footsteps falling out of synch on the stairs. 

“Can I go for a drive?” Morgan asks. 

Her fingers brush his own and he snatches them away, rubbing at the fingertips that prickle where she touched. 

“No.” 

“But you are the driver of the car.” Her voice follows him down the gravel and he speeds up. She’s not supposed to leave the house. “I want to go in the car.” 

“No.” He snaps back at her. 

Pepper doesn’t pay him enough to deal with this. 

Happy flings open the door of the Audi, leans across into the centre console. He rummages in it, looking for his pills. He’s not a babysitter, he yells inside his head. He’s been one of those before. And look how it turned out. 

Not again, he’d told them, and not like this. 

Not with this. 

The statement had fractured Tony for months. 

“Teach me to drive.” Morgan commands from outside the door, and for a second he’s thrown back, to another time, another young voice wheedling and prodding and demanding, ‘Happy, teach me to drive the Audi, please, please, please!?’ 

His shaking fingers close around the pill bottle and he yanks it out, fumbling with the cap. The top pops off, medication spilling over his palm, some on the seat, some on rolling onto the ground. 

Morgan is watching him, her head tilted to the side. 

He finally gets a pill under his tongue. 

“Morgan?” Tony’s voice calls from inside the house. 

Happy drops himself into the seat, pulling the door closed beside him, the interior of the car a cool bubble. He watches Morgan’s stilted run up to Tony. He counts his wheezing breaths as Tony scoops Morgan up and sways her gently, her arms loose around his shoulders. 

Happy presses a hand against his sternum, smothering the ache of his anger. 

* * *

FRIDAY’s been calculating. She watches everything, she always does, and she always has, ever since she came into being. She watches, and she runs simulations, but emotions are difficult. Resulting actions are even harder to compute, especially after the Decimation. 

She can apply reason or logic retrospectively to responses, find correlating psychological theory but predictions are, unpredictable. 

She tries anyway. 

“Hey FRIDAY,” Boss says to the ceiling, removing his arm from around Morgan’s shoulders, where she hutches over a page of numbers and letters. “I’m just ducking out. Can you keep an eye on Morgan for me?” 

FRIDAY hums. 

“Try to teach her something.” He adds. 

“Would you like that, button eyes?” he tucks his fingers under Morgan’s chin, directs her face up towards his, “Do you wanna learn from FRIDAY?” 

Morgan nods vigorously. 

“Okay. Great!” Boss adds. 

He considers her face for a second, then leans down and plants a kiss on her forehead. 

“Be good.” Boss says before he steps out. 

“Teach me something, FRIDAY!” Morgan enthuses, arms wavering in the air. 

FRIDAY runs scenarios. 

She’s got something to teach Morgan. 

She opens a screen in the holographic desk and Morgan trots over obediently, dropping herself down in front of the display. FRIDAY swirls up an image. It’s not forbidden, strictly, but it’s an action with previous negative consequence. Her numbers tell her it is a risky move. 

High risk, the Boss would say, leads to high reward. 

“That’s the boy from the picture.” Morgan says. “Why are you teaching me this?” 

“He came before you.” FRIDAY says. 

Morgan considers this for a moment, face tilted into the steady blue light of the screen, irises adjusting and readjusting as she takes in the image. 

“First is the worst.” Morgan eventually mutters. 

It takes FRIDAY a microsecond to place the reference, and she hums. Morgan will learn. A child’s rhyme, and volumes of engineering experience about prototyping, is not true in this case. 

Morgan blinks. 

“Show me more.” She demands. 

FRIDAY shows her. More and more, while Morgan sits at attention, absorbing it all. Eventually Tony comes back, so FRIDAY folds the display away. 

“Our secret.” She tells Morgan. 

Morgan slides out of her chair and climbs up over the back of the couch. 

“Hey, Mister Stark!” She says. 

The boss falters, then stumbles.“What did you-“ 

Morgan runs to his side. 

“Where did you hear that?” He demands in a tremour. 

FRIDAY monitors closely. Elevated heart and respiratory rate, sweat collection around his temples, face in a grimace. Shock and adrenaline. 

Expected responses. 

On track so far to simulated outcome. 

“FRIDAY’s been teaching me!” Morgan says brightly, patting Boss’s shoulder, missing the signs even from up close. She’s so unsophisticated. 

“It’s awesome, Mister Stark!” Morgan says the word like she’s never used it before, voice crackling around the edges. 

Boss’s eyes fall closed. They flutter, as though he’s running a video behind his eyes, pulling up memories to rerun. 

Simulated outcome likelihood increasing. 

Then small arms wrap around his neck. Boss’s arms come up automatically, draw Morgan in close, squeeze her tight. 

“Are you okay?” Morgan asks softly. “You’re leaking.” 

“I’m okay.” Boss says, wiping at his eyes. “I’m-” 

He looks at Morgan’s small face, so close to his. He rests his forehead against hers for a second. 

Unexpected action. 

“Don’t call me ‘Mister Stark’ okay.” Boss says to Morgan. “Just, don’t say that.” 

“Okay,” Morgan pats his face with her small hand. “I’m sorry.” 

“Just,” Boss squeezes his eyes tight for a second, “‘Daddy’ is fine.” 

“Of course,” Morgan says, “Silly, Daddy.” 

Boss smiles and kisses her cheek. 

Negative outcome. 

* * *

“Holy-” Scott’s voice fades away, the weight of his shock stealing the rest of his words from the air. 

He closes the passenger side door behind himself on autopilot. 

Cap glances at him, a fast one, before bringing his eyes back to the front, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. His only response. That blank expression has too many wounds simmering underneath it, so Scott can’t tell which exact damaging emotion sits in his eyes right now. 

They watch as Nat speaks quietly to Tony, Morgan still on his hip. Nat folds him into a hug,arms slipping in between Tony and Morgan. It’s so soft, so warmly maternal. Her hand rests briefly against Tony’s face before she drops it hesitantly to Morgan’s shoulder. They say something more, then Nat steps away. 

Cap starts the car. 

Nat slams the car door shut behind her harder than necessary. 

“Seatbelts.” Cap says, before they begin to roll away. 

Tony waves from the porch, twisting a little so Morgan can wave a lazy hand from over his shoulder. He grips the back of her head as he murmurs something into her hair. Scott twists in his seat, his eyes on them until the car rolls away, the back of the house hiding them from sight. Scott presses his forehead into the leather headrest, just for a second, before sliding back forwards. 

The driveway is long, trees stretching on in rows. 

“Is no one going to say anything?” Scott blurts out as they pull out onto the road. 

“What do you want us to say?” Nat asks from the back. She’s aiming for bored, but it’s just weary. 

“Tell me you tried to talk to him before this.” Scott says. “Tell me you had an intervention. Tell me- tell me someone tried to help him.” 

“This is helping him.” Nat says. 

Scott pleads with Cap with his eyes. The great Steve Rogers won’t look at him. 

They ride in silence again to the highway, each wrapped in their own thoughts. 

“What did he mean by ‘second chance’?” Scott asks eventually. 

Nat and Cap exchange glances in the rear-view mirror. 

Scott wants to pull his words back out of the air, scoop them up and shove them away. 

They don’t answer him anyway. 

* * *

Pepper thinks maybe she just doesn’t love things. That maybe it’s true, what the tabloids, the business magazines and the morning talk shows say about her. That she traded all the soft, womanly bit of herself for a hard-ass shell to play with the big boys. 

That she’s cold. 

After all, you can’t have a career, a stable mental health, a family and be sufficiently attractive to the public eye without sacrificing something. 

Can’t be with a superhero without losing at least a little. 

She stirs the pasta sauce, pouring a little extra wine into it, and then more into her own glass. 

She loves Tony, she’s sure. She loves Tony, and Rhodey and Happy. But not in the way Tony loves things, with ferocity, like worlds ripping apart. Like desperation. 

“Can I help?” Morgan asks from her elbow, startling Pepper into sloshing the wine. 

“Uh, sure.” Pepper says. 

Morgan drags across a chair and clambers up. She holds out her hand and Pepper presses the spoon into it, guides her to swirl the spoon about in the pot. She clutches her wine glass to her chest and steps away, staying close enough to occasionally correct the spoon position or shift Morgan away from the hot stove top. 

Touching Morgan makes her feel numb. 

She studies Morgan’s dark hair, the little pucker of a frown under her chin. She hadn’t wanted her, and she feels wretched for not wanting her, but she feels worse for caving to Tony. She never should have agreed, but after Titan, after Tony begged, how could she say no? 

She hadn’t fully considered what it would be like, to be here with Morgan every day. She wasn’t prepared. 

She wants her old life back. To live in a penthouse, to immerse into her work, to laugh at the latest patrol’s Baby Monitor footage over dinner and dance with her soon to be husband. 

Tony comes into the kitchen, startling Pepper. 

“My two favourite girls.” Tony smiles, that fragile smile. 

She returns his kiss automatically, a press of her mouth against him. Her lips tingle as Tony leaves her side, going to stand behind Morgan, placing his hand over hers, wrapping her up. He teaches her to stir the sauce, laughing into empty air as she dribbles red sauce all over the bench. 

“You’ll be a regular Gordon Ramsey in no time,” he tells her, “hellion in the kitchen.” 

Pepper slips away, unable to look at the way Tony looks at Morgan. 

She sits on the couch in the dark, rolls the cool glass between her own cold hands. She twirls the stem of her glass between her fingers as the wine warms, and she brings at least a little heat to something. 

“Hey.” 

The kiss Tony presses to the side of her head surprises her. He leans over the back of the couch, pulls her in close to his chest. 

“Dinner’s ready.” He says into her hair. “And Morgan says she loves you eight hundred today.” 

“Did she say that?” Pepper’s voice is brittle. “Or did you tell her to say that?” 

Tony’s arms tighten a little, but he’s silent. Pepper closes her eyes in resignation, draws a deep breath. Even when she’s not in the room, Morgan is between them. 

“I’m sorry.” She says, and gently untangles herself to stand. “Dinner?” 

Tony leaves the room before her, and she takes a second, wiping at her tears. She straightens her shoulders, brushes down her shirt, pushes her hair back. It catches on the necklace. Her fingers close around the pendant. 

Clattering dishes, warm conversation, laughter float from the kitchen. 

The necklace that she stole from May Parker’s jewellery box bites into her hand. It bit her the first she picked it up too, all those years ago, when they went looking for May, looking for an answer, for something to help them, and found an apartment full of dust. 

Maybe Pepper doesn’t know Tony’s kind of love. 

But she knows desperation. 

And she desperately needs Peter Parker back. 

* * *

It’s the loudest quiet Peter’s ever heard. All the soft shuffles, the half-caught sobs, the water lapping against the flower arrangement, everything smothered down and blanketed over like their grief has to be quiet, reserved, when he just wants to wail. 

He locks himself in the garage. 

It’s familiar in here, all the things Peter knows about Mister Stark, the most recognisable thing about the cabin. So many things are different now. He just wants to cling to something familiar. He wants to cling to Mister Stark. 

He drops to the floor. Curls in on himself on the dusty concrete floor, the buzz of machinery and soft hum of processors white noise, drowning out the humanness outside. 

Something whirs, then a soft rustle. 

Peter squints into the dim room. Terminals twinkle at him, glinting off the armour plating strewn about the benches. 

“Hello?” he calls out. 

More shuffling from the corner. 

“Is someone in here?” Peter calls, rolling onto his haunches and sitting up. 

A small sneaker clad foot sticks out from under the bench. 

“Hey,” he says softly, peeking under the bench. “Hey, what are you doing in here?” 

He can make out a huddled form. 

“Hiding.” Comes the short response, a small voice, a young girl’s voice. 

“Can I hide too?” He asks, and waits for the responding nod before he crawls under the table with her. 

Peter tries to think where Clint’s kids are, if anyone else bought children. The lab isn’t a very safe place for hiding. Then again, he remembers crawling into a cupboard at his parent’s funeral, secreting himself away from all the pitying eyes. 

“Hi,” he says as he settles down on the dusty floor, gripping his knees tightly up to his chest, minding her space. 

“I got all dressed up,” the girl says, “but Mummy and the grown-ups don’t want me.” 

Peter’s heart constricts, feeling for the little girl, no matter how confusing everything is for him, he knows he’s wanted here. 

The way Colonel Rhodes had gripped his shoulders, the way Happy had hugged him so hard, the handshakes from the Avengers like he had contributed something remarkable. The forehead kiss from Pepper before she cried. 

“Thank you, Peter,” she’d whispered, “thank you.” 

Their warmth, their approval, their love. 

It was overwhelming. 

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Peter says soothingly. 

“It is!” She replies, and Peter feels her twitch in agitation. 

“Well,” Peter hesitates, “I want to hang out with you. In fact, I came looking.” 

“You did?” The little voice is hopeful. 

“Yup.” Peter pops the P, and nudges his shoulder against the girl’s. “I was wondering where you were.” 

“Oh.” She sounds pleased. “Who are you?” 

“I’m Peter.” 

The whirring increases. 

“Peter!” A small hand grabs his arm, and it feels weird where it touches his skin, cold and a little lifeless. 

“You- you know who I am?” He asks. 

“Of course,” the little girl says brightly, “you’re the prototype.” 

Her hand buzzes against his skin. 

“I’m what?” 

Peter fumbles for his phone, his hands shaking as he navigates the new unfamiliar settings, adjusting the screen brightness. He drops it onto the ground, the blue light radiating through the space. 

He presses a hand to his mouth. 

Its eyebrows are raised, expressing earnestness, or excitement, he can’t quite tell. The skin doesn’t crease the way it should, only where the pressure on the silicon becomes too much. He can hear the eye shutters flickering as they adjust to the new light, take in his face. It’s processing him. Mechanical joints whir as it tilts its head, raises an arm. 

“You’re Peter.” It points to him. “I’m Morgan.” 

The floor drops out from beneath him, like he’s falling through space, like he’s crumbling to dust. 

He was gone, he was gone, and Mister Stark built this. 

It almost looks like a real girl. 

Almost. 

“I’m not a prototype.” Peter whispers through his fingers. 

“Yes, you are.” The, the thing, Morgan, says. “You made Daddy sad,” the mouth twists downwards, a grief pantomime mask, “and he’d cry ‘Peter, Peter, Peter’, but then I would make him happy again.” 

The mouth twist back up, into an exaggerated smile. It drops back to neutral. 

Mister Stark replaced him. 

Replaced him this. 

The phone light reflects off the black velvet dress it wears, frilly socks sticking out from its sneakers. 

“You got dressed to go to the funeral.” Peter croaks. 

“Yes,” the robot says. 

“Why?” 

“To say goodbye to Daddy.” It says. 

Peter pushes hard against the words he wants to shout. He wasn’t her Dad. He wasn’t. He swallows the words down and they eat at his stomach, burning deep in his gut. 

They sit in silence for a moment, its circuits spinning away. 

“You made him happy?” Peter’s voice cracks when he speaks again. 

Morgan nods enthusiastically, then its forehead creases. 

“But not anymore.” She says, dropping her chin, tapping her finger against the floor. 

He studies her closer, looks at the articulation of her fingers as she fidgets, the smooth motion as she blinks. Her voice is easier to read than her movements, but the engineering is, its incredible. Peter can see it, even through his revulsion. 

“I don’t have a purpose.” She says. “I will shut down without maintenance.” 

Good. Peter thinks, looking away from her unnatural eyes. Shut down. Go away. She’s wrong. She’s a wrong thing. 

Somewhere, beneath the sludge sickness in his gut, a little voice reminds him. A wrong thing that Mister Stark wanted. A wrong thing that Mister Stark made. A wrong thing that Mister Stark loved. 

Well Mister Stark is gone, Peter argues. Burnt away and soon there will be nothing left to grasp at, just floating scraps of memories. 

Morgan hums again. He thinks of the work that went into her. 

“Don’t.” His words taste like bile. 

“We’ll-” he sucks a deep breath. “I’ll maintain you.” 

As she clambers into his lap, slipping her arms around his neck, he can feel the buzz of electronics, the prickle of static. She presses a silicon kiss against his cheek. 

“We’re gonna be best friends, Peter.” She promises. “Best.” 

“Okay.” He says numbly, hugging her back. “Best friends.”

**Author's Note:**

> Additional tags: inappropriate coping mechanisms, not what it seems, references to what appears to be postnatal depression, replacing children, child loss
> 
> Hi all,  
> Hope you found the fic interesting, at the very least. The prompt seemed funny, until I thought about it for a second, and this was my take on it!  
> Thank you to starcrosslane and ferretshark for beta-ing, and ferretshark for listening to my near line by line editing today.  
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you got something out of reading it!


End file.
